


Focaria

by CastielsCarma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breadbaking gone wrong, Demon!Dean, DestielFFPrompt (Supernatural), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsCarma/pseuds/CastielsCarma
Summary: Castiel tries to bake bread. It goes horribly wrong.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	Focaria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollyblue2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyblue2/gifts).



> This was a prompt from the Destiel Forever group on Facebook. "The demon stands amid your destroyed kitchen screaming, "How? How are you able to summon me?!" You're standing in the corner flipping through your grandma's cookbook as fast as you can, screaming back, "I don't know!! You were supposed to be chicken soup."
> 
> This was such a fun prompt! I hope some humor translates into the fic. xD As always thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are much appreciated and make my heart do a tiny dance.

Castiel is still angry as he tosses the keys on the small table in the hall and toes off his shoes. Work had been stressful but that he could handle. He could even handle incompetent people fighting him every step of the way but what has his blood boiling is Chuck Shurley. He's from upper management and has only been on the job for a couple of weeks, yet he ignores Castiel in everything.

Castiel is used to leading his team, getting things done, and presenting facts to his bosses. Not only does Chuck ask for numbers and the latest about the projects; he then turns around and does the exact opposite.

The thought of the latest verbal exchange between them has Castiel fuming. It's not even that he's pissed about Chuck's attitude – many of the big shots he's met pretend they know everything, but they at least listen and do what's right in the end. Castiel still gets paid but he's furious that he and his team has to do all that extra work and the long hours for fucking nothing.

He stalks over to the fridge and yanks it open. He considers going for the beer but decides against it. What he really wants is to go back and tell Chuck he's a fucking asshole. Castiel exhales and decides to do one of the things that really relaxes him.

He goes to the bedroom and removes his tie. He unbuttons his shirt and tosses it over a chair before quickly losing his dress pants. Poking his head into the closet, he grabs a pair of comfortable, well-worn jeans and a more casual blue shirt.

Going back to the kitchen, he grabs a small, worn notebook. He doesn't remember it being quite that worn, but it has been some time since he's used it.

It's leather-bound and almost every page is filled with notes. Everything from homemade chili, the Swedish Christmas buns known as lussekatter, a killer barbecue sauce, and cabbage soup. His grandmother Amara had been an eccentric old lady and had traveled all over the world in her RV. Every dish that made her 'feel like the darkness has taken over' she wrote down. Castiel never inquired on what exactly that meant and how it related to food. He only ate what she cooked and nodded in appreciation while she was alive.

Castiel thinks that he'll maybe do the Wiener schnitzel. Amara got the recipe from an Austrian lady that helped her hunt down a rabbit that had stolen her favorite shoe. She had lamented over the fact that Amara had insisted on releasing the rabbit after the shoe was found as she'd wanted to turn the rabbit into dinner. Amara had been steadfast and the old Austrian lady had cooked a Wiener schnitzel instead that was to die for. It had left such an impression that Amara finally convinced the lady to give her the recipe. 

Castiel wonders if all her rec ipes came with a story like that. He wishes that he 'd asked her when she was alive. All he can do now to honor her is to cook her food.

Making the schnitzel involves a hammer and lots of pounding until the meat is thin. It is a good option and one that will give him an opportunity to beat out some aggression but Castiel is not in the mood to make a full meal. A good schnitzel demands potatoes and sauce and he just wants to be lost in the art of cooking, not necessarily eating.

Suddenly it comes to him. He flips through the pages, most of them are yellow. Time itself has grasped the book and refuses to let go but Amara's writings are still visible – for the most part. He comes across the section at the back of the book and has to squint as he reads the headline. He's fairly certain this is the focaccia recipe.

He grabs yeast and water and starts mixing it all together in a bowl. He squints as he tries to read a note next to the oil. Say what you want about grandmother Amara but the art of writing understandably was not her top priority. Castiel is fairly certain that reads holy oil. He shakes his head. Holy oil, what even is that?

Just because it's been a shitty day and he still wants to forget about Chuck being a dick, he grabs the bottle of olive oil. He ponders for a while what he should say but goes for the first thing that comes to mind. “Our Heavenly Father, who gives us our daily bread, please bless this oil.” He waits for a second and then shrugs. There, the olive oil is holy. He pours it down in the bowl and mixes again.

He grabs some flour and starts pouring it into the bowl and checks the notes again. So far so good. He tries to see a time reference for the dough but Amara's handwriting is more flowery than the high elves. _Until the bones are ground to dust_.

Castiel blinks. That seems like taking things too far. He can't wait that long. Maybe bone flour is some kind of ancient heritage flour? Cas remembers that he has a box – chest really – with things that Amara willed him after her death. He can't remember that there were any baking items in there but he decides to take a look anyway.

Wiping away the excess flour, he opens up a closet door and looks way in the back. There, over some throws and pillows, he sees Amara's chest. He pulls it out and opens the lid. There are letters there that he's read numerous times but now he's in search of the many glass vials, jars, and little pots she left behind.

After trying four jars, the fifth is a hit. He looks at the label one more time, just to be sure. _Bone flour._ There's something else written above it, but the label is so worn that Castiel can't make out what. This will do. Heritage flour check.

As he walks back to the kitchen, he opens the lid and smells it. It smells fine. He adds the bone flour and mixes in some more water. As he doesn't have a time reference for how long the bread should rise, he decides that thirty minutes will do.

This is a therapeutic bread baking. If it turns out to be inedible, he always have the leftovers from the paneer kadhai yesterday. He kneads the dough for a few minutes and ignores the mental image of it being Chuck. This is supposed to be calming.

He spreads out the dough with his hands on an oiled baking sheet that he's salted. He did manage to gleam on the second page that the salt should be purified. He thought all salt was purified.. wasn't that its thing?

He lets the dough rest and washes his hands. Already he feels calmer.

He goes back to the closet and gets Amara's chest. He sits down on the kitchen floor and opens up a letter. He reads through it and notices a smile form on his lips. It's a greeting from Amara, from when she was hiking in the Norwegian mountains. He puts it down and pulls up a tiny jar. _Purified salt – of old._ There are some words missing in the middle, the label is worn off, but at least it's purified. Castiel shrugs and gets up. He lifts the baking towel and sprinkles a generous heap of purified salt on the dough.

As the dough rises, Castiel washes his hands and grabs a deck of cards. He starts laying out his favorite solitaire game. Not for the first time, he wishes that he'd have someone to play with. He glances at the Scrabbles game on the shelf in the living room. It's not like Castiel doesn't know people. He has Dumah from work, April that works reception and Charlie. To be honest, Charlie is the only one he considers a friend. They've known each other for a few years, and he sees her regularly on the weekends, whether that is for a movie, talking about nothing for hours, or going out for a coffee.

But now and then it hits him; if Charlie leaves, or moves to another city, he'll have no one. He sighs, puts the cards down, and walks over to check his bread. It's risen to a nice, fluffy size. There's no sign of tomatoes in Amara's recipe, at least he thinks there isn't.

He pokes a bunch of holes in the bread and drizzles olive oil over the dough. He sprinkles on more salt and then grabs the tomatoes. He pushes them down in the holes and tosses some on top of the dough. Next, he grabs the basil leaves and sprinkles them generously both on and inside the dough.

Glancing at the page in the cookbook he thinks he's followed it. The last line is _Throw it in the fires of hell._ Castiel rolls his eyes. That was Amara in a nutshell, always so dramatic. He glances at his oven. It's new – the whole kitchen is brand new – he did a remodel three weeks back but he doubts that even the most modern oven will reach fires of hell temperature.

The bread looks amazing. Castiel will feast like a king tonight. He grabs the pan and places the bread in the oven.

As Castiel is cleaning the countertop, a foul scent assaults him. It's like the worst blend of putrid eggs, vomit, and shit. He drops the rag on the counter, takes three steps and the whole world erupts.

When he comes to, Castiel's in the corner of what used to be his kitchen. His fingers brush against Amara's cookbook. His countertop is in counter pieces, the oven is standing but the glass is shattered and it looks like someone has punched it with a huge fist. Cabinets are all over his floor, as is the fridge and all the food in his cupboard is spread out on the walls; flour, sugar, crackers.

Castiel's eyes are huge and it has nothing to do with the destruction of his kitchen.

A fucking monster is in his kitchen. He stands in the center of the rubble and looks awfully human. He seems to be the same height as Castiel and wears jeans and a green Henley. His face would be called beautiful Castiel thinks, if it wasn't for the things sticking out from his head.

Horns.

Real-life, honest to God horns. Black horns that curve slightly towards the back like ram's horn but it's not that that causes Castiel's stomach to do somersaults. His eyes are pitch black. It's like he's staring into nothingness.

“How? How were you able to summon me?” He points a finger at Castiel.

Castiel is so confused and scared that he ends up shouting at the thing. “I don't know, I was trying to make focaccia!”

The creature's face which was previously distorted in anger smooths out and then Castiel hears small laughter that grows in strength. “You were trying to bake bread. That is fucking hilarious man.”

He blinks once, and the darkness of his eyes is gone, only to reveal a soft hazel color. They look very human. Castiel avoids to look further up, the horns are still there. The creature is still laughing and somehow Castiel feels offended. Not only is his brand new kitchen destroyed and his focaccia is blown up, now this horn-headed asshole is laughing.

“I don't know what's so funny. My kitchen is in shambles and I'm hungry. I would've had some paneer instead but it's all gone because you blew it up!” The creature's eyes turn black again and Castiel realizes that it probably isn't the wisest thing to shout at this creature.

He just shrugs and walks over to Castiel. “I'm Dean. You?”

Castiel bites his lip but figures there's no harm in revealing his name. “Castiel.”

Dean grins and picks up the recipe book next to Castiel. “You do know that you should never reveal your name to a demon, Blue Eyes.”

Castiel feels his lunch trying to come back up. “A d-demon? There are no such things.”

“Well, here I am.” Dean just nods and flips through Castiel's recipe book. He stops at the focaccia recipe and starts laughing again. “I swear on all that's unholy, this has to be some trick from Michael himself.”

Castiel stands straighter; he's not sure if he's trying to instill courage in himself or get ready to confront a demon. He can't explain away the horns or the fact that Dean manifested in the middle of his kitchen. “Can I have my recipe book back? It carries sentimental value.”

“Cas...” Dean prolongs the letters and how he utters them, like a soft-spoken sigh that makes a wave of pleasure roll through Castiel. “This isn't a recipe book, you foolish human. It's a spellbook and you've summoned me.” There's a glean in his eyes. “You ready to pay up?”

Castiel backs away from Dean and jumps over what was once his toaster. “I pay up? Me?! You're the one that that showed up in a puff of smoke and obliterated my kitchen. How am I going to cook? Eat? You owe me a new kitchen, demon or not.” Usually, Castiel would not think it wise to shout at a demon but he's fairly certain that Chuck Shurley being an ass and his kitchen being extinguished has pushed him over the edge.

Dean crosses his arms. “It's not my fault you summoned me in a kitchen. Not even a salt circle. Have you even watched the show Supernatural?”

Castiel sighs. “No, I haven't. I don't watch those kinds of shows. Is Supernatural still on?”

Dean just grins. “Oh yeah. Has helped me with the influx of souls to the place below. Not that I care about that. You'd think humans would learn... but nope. So, you ready? We can do it here, but I gotta say, your free spirit décor of the kitchen is a tad too free. But whatever sparks joy.” His eyes turn black. “I know what sparks joy in me.”

Castiel has his back turned to the wall as he slowly tries to exit into the living room but he trips on a can of peaches and lands on his back. “If you kill me, you're...”

Dean is on him in a heartbeat and straddles him.

It's not that Dean is really bigger than Castiel (if you discount the horns), it's the knowledge that Dean is a _demon_ that makes him seem larger than life.

“... dead?” Dean chuckles darkly. “What's dead may never die. Perks of being a demon.” He brings his lips to the outer shell of Castiel's ear.

Dean's lips so close to his ear and the faint breath of his words makes Castiel's body go into full alert. Goosebumps ride his body and he shivers but the thing that has Castiel gritting down his teeth in annoyance is the fact that his cock is hardening. It's just a reaction. Nothing else.

Castiel turns away. “Did you just quote Game of Thrones?”

Dean smiles. “Who do you think made a demon deal to be the writers of the show? Not my department though.” He grips Castiel's chin and makes him look into his eyes.

They're still there, looking as human as ever. Castiel would even call Dean's eyes beautiful if it wasn't for the fact that he was a demon. With horns. The stuff of nightmares.

“Are you going to ask me what the spell was called?” It's practically a purr. He snorts suddenly.”It's definitely not focaccia, Cas.”

Castiel licks his lips. He really shouldn't do what a demon asks him, but curiosity has gotten the best of him. “What's the name of the spell?” He has to believe it's a spell now, with a demon practically grinding down on him.

“Focaria infernus.” Dean smiles but it falters when he doesn't get a reaction.

“Doesn't ring any bells.”

Dean furrows his brows and mutters. “What do they teach you in school nowadays?”

If Castiel doesn't know any better, he'd say Dean sounds disappointed. “Not Latin,” he mutters and tries to wiggle away.

Dean weighs down on him. “You moving doesn't spark joy.”

Castiel stills. He will not ask what is going on with the Kondo references. Maybe that's some kind of demon deal but he has enough problems dealing with one demon to care about if Marie has made some kind of deal too. Although being pinned down by a demon would hardly count as Castiel dealing with it, more like enduring it.

“Focaria infernus... never heard if it.”

Dean grins and licks his lips. “It means paramour of Hell”.

Castiel's eyes fly to Dean's lips, then back to Dean's eyes which have flashed black again. It's still unsettling but he's getting used to it. That should alarm him. It doesn't. “OK...”

Dean sighs. “What has happened with humanity? It means courtesan of Hell. I seduce people. Fuck them into oblivion. They sell their soul to me – back in the day I accepted a hand or a good chunk of hair too – and I fuck them, make love, seduce them, whatever they like.”

Alarm floods through Castiel at those words. “But I haven't... sold you anything yet? You said this was just a summoning.”

Dean reaches out and caresses Castiel's lips with his thumb. “I'll make you sell your soul to me,. You'll want to sell your soul to me after I give you a taste.” He rolls his hips down, hitting just right.

A surge of want rushes through Castiel and he moans at the contact.

“There. And this is just a tiny morsel of what I can do.” Dean's eyes flash back to human again.

“Can I think about it?”

Dean gets off Castiel quickly and crosses his arms. His horns shine oddly in the light, like they're trying to absorb it. “Think about it? I'm a virtual sex god and you have to think about it? I can force you to make a deal if I want.”

Castiel's death wish speaks up. “Why haven't you then?” His heart hammers in his chest wildly at the horror of arguing, not arguing really, but picking a fight with a demon.

A flash of teeth. “It's more fun when you give in.”

Castiel gets up. “Well, I've had a shitty day at work, I just wanted focaccia and my kitchen is no more. There will be no giving in. So either you force me into a deal... kind of low for a demon that's supposedly all evil and badass and can't wait for actual, real deals – “

“ – I never said I was evil, Cas. I just give people what they want.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Through coercion.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Either you do that, or you shut up while I play some Scrabbles.”

He can feel Dean at his back as he follows him to the living room. It's a prickly sensation near his shoulder blades, and he uses all his willpower not to turn around. As he grabs the game and sits down on the floor, Dean sits down next to him.

“I won't shut up.” Dean takes the game from Castiel and opens up the lid.

“So no wild sex marathon tonight?”

Dean grins and Castiel can see the hunger in his eyes as they roam over his body. “Are you asking me? I'll be honest.”

“A demon being honest, that's a first.”

Dean scoffs. “For trying to bake bread and summoning a demon instead, you're really not the one to talk, Cas.”

“It's Castiel.”

Dean takes out the pieces. “Sure thing, Cas.”

Castiel sighs and lets Dean hand him the pieces.

“So, first to win sells his soul to the other? Deal?”

Castiel is already regretting opening up that book. But he's sure that telling a demon to go to hell will not have the desired outcome he's looking for. “Do you even have a soul?”

Dean laughs and pats Castiel's back. “See, you're learning! Asking the right questions already. Of course I don't have a soul. Demon here, Cas.” He picks up his five pieces. “You start.”

“How nice of you.”

“I can be if I want too.” Dean furrows his brow at the word Castiel has laid out. “So, how come your old granny had a spellbook?”

Castiel sighs. “No idea and right now I don't care. My kitchen is gone, I'm hungry and I'm playing Scrabbles with a demon.”

Dean shrugs. “One out of three is not bad. Good odds actually.”

“It's not a good thing, me playing games with a demon.” Castiel rubs a hand over his face. “I think I'm going crazy. Probably stress-related.”

“Whatever you say that will make you feel better. Let's make a deal. I can zap that stress out of your life like that.” Dean snaps his fingers for emphasis.

“Does that mean you'll go away? _You're_ the stress in my life right now.”

Dean just laughs, like Castiel has said something hilarious.

Castiel sighs. But in the tiniest corner of his heart, he admits to himself; it does feel nice to play Scrabble with someone. Even if that someone is a demon.


End file.
